


Poetry

by chaoticbeing



Category: The Magnus Archives (Podcast)
Genre: Gen, Mild Hurt/Comfort, i don't know how tagging works in this fandom i'm sorry, takes place after MAG 20, vent fic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-04
Updated: 2020-12-04
Packaged: 2021-03-09 20:41:43
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,333
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27882429
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/chaoticbeing/pseuds/chaoticbeing
Summary: Tim planned on getting snacks from the vending machine when he hears the sound of something hitting the wall and clattering against the floor.
Relationships: Martin Blackwood & Tim Stoker
Kudos: 19





	Poetry

**Author's Note:**

> i just finished s1 so i'm sorry if this is out of character or is disproved later on

A clattering is heard as Tim turns into the hallway. It sounded like something small, something that rattled as it fell to the ground. He rubs the fiver in his hand, meant for the vending machine that was just in eyesight at the end of the hall. 

But he couldn’t help himself. Things are dropped all the time, but very rarely are they  _ thrown _ . He smiles and raises his eyebrows. Shoving the fiver into his pocket, he makes his way towards the door and knocks. It was one of those many mystery rooms that scattered the archives, so he didn’t know what to expect.

“Who’s there??” A panicked voice. Martin! That was one of the options Tim knew was possible; his co-worker had been living in the archive for about a week now. But he just happened to never see what room Martin went into.

“It’s Tim. You alright?” He fidgets with the doorknob. “Can I come in?”

“Um--” The voice stutters, and it took a beat before finishing off with a, “Give me a second..”

Tim relaxes his grip on the doorknob. Guess Martin wasn’t expecting visitors.

After a couple seconds, Martin opens up. The door. He pushes back his light brown bangs and offers Tim a little anxious smile.

His cheeks are flushed pink, and seem to be…wet.

Tim furrows his brows, pulling his mouth tight. But he doesn’t say anything. He decides to smile again, figuring distraction was the best course of action.

“Oh, um.” Martin does his little anxious laugh, one that Tim knew best from when he talked to Jon. He steps out of the way into the dark room, giving Tim room.

If it wasn’t for the large windows, the room would be pitch black. Tim steps inside, looking around. The overcast day highlights shelves and shelves of… books? He blinks. Guess it should be obvious that the archive would have books. This room seems dedicated to them. He turns to face Martin, who has since left the door a crack.

“I should’ve asked, oops. Um… Do you want the lights on?”

Tim nods. “If you’d like, sure,”

The lights flick on and buzz. They flicker, lacking the LEDs which had replaced the main hall lights. They glow a rustic yellow. Tim tilts his head up, takes a couple steps back, and feels his foot hit something large and metal. Glancing over his shoulder, he notices the fire extinguisher he almost tripped over.

“Hah! You have your own personal one!”

Martin nods. “The worms don’t get in here often, so…”

“What did you throw?” 

A moment of silence. Tim’s taking that moment to look around the room, eyes falling on the cassette recorder that lays open. The lid is cracked and prepped open, broken but ready to take something in.

“That,”

“Oh yea. I can tell. Quite the throw,” Tim navigates over the fire extinguisher and squats. Picks it up, tries to fix the lid, but it doesn’t click back into place. Brings his attention back to Martin.

“Why?”

Martin shrugs, itching at his wrist under his sweater sleeve. “I got.. frustrated,”

“Mhm,” Tim nods. Decides to set the recorder on the windowsill.

“I was trying to record something, and I just kept messing up, and it didn’t sound right, and I, I…” Groans. “I sound ridiculous, don’t I?”

Tim’s listening, but also trying to take in the room. It’s clearly lived in at this point; a mattress on the ground with clothes and a blanket strewn on it. Pieces of paper with cheap pen scribbled all over it. Words? Probably?

“You write music or something?”

“Poetry.”

“Ooo,”

He’s starting to put together what happened. Must’ve been reciting something, gotten upset, and chucked the thing.

“What kind? Haikus? Love ballads?”

“No, nono,” Martin walks over to the make-shift bed, trying to clean it up last minute now that Tim’s taken it in. “I’m not really a…  _ love ballad  _ person. I get too embarrassed,” He’s done his best to quickly fold some shirts, faster than Tim could’ve. “Not really a lovey-dovey person…” He mumbles. 

“What’d make you throw the tape?”

“I got frustrated.” He lets himself fall into sitting on the bed, the springs squeaking. Once settled, he goes back to itching his wrists. Tim assumes that’s one of his nervous habits, although hopes for a moment that it isn’t causing him harm.

“I--” His voice cracks a little. “I’ve been trying to write something, something good, for a while! You know I’m surrounded by all these books, and I’ve been reading them, and I thought, oh, maybe I could finally do it,” Tears starts streaming down his cheeks, 

“I mean. I don’t have any distractions either, I don’t have to drive to work, I’m spending all day, everyday in here- it’d be wasting time if I didn’t try to accomplish something!” He winces for a second before pulling one hand away from the other. Tim didn’t see what he did, but is glad he settled on gripping his sheets instead. 

“And nothing’s working. I tried something new, liked it for a- a  _ second _ , then decided to read it. Because normally I do enjoy that sort of thing! But it sounded like  _ shit  _ when I tried the first time. So I tried again, changed my tone, you know, everything english teachers instruct, but that, that didn’t work either-” He shuttering, going through the waves of sobs. Tim readjusts himself so he’s sitting on the floor in front of his coworker. He’d seen Martin cry before, but not like this. He seemed to be peering in on some private turmoil.

“So I  _ threw  _ the damn thing! Right across the room! I-I didn’t mean for it to break, but. It did. So that’s another thing I’ve, I’ve just broken, and, I can’t exactly leave and get a new one, and…” He looks up for a moment, panicked eyes locking with Tim’s. All the panic and sobbing shut down in that moment.

“I-, shit… I’m sorry, Tim,” Rubs his eyes with the palm of his hands. Tries to console himself with deep breaths. “I shouldn’t’ve dumped this all on you,” He still sounds like he’s about to burst again, but he’s clearly trying to redirect things. “I’m sorry,”

“I asked.”

Martin squeezes his eyes tight. Shakes his head. “Still shouldn’t’ve gone and cried like that. I’m sorry,”

Tim reaches out and places a secure hand on Martin’s knee. He doesn’t need him to look, just needs him to know he’s there.

“You’re stressed. Some people can make amazing art during crisis, but your brain’s still all over the place, isn’t it?”

Martin nods. It’s a small nod, like a child getting scolded and needing to agree.

“I’m sure your poetry’s great. If anything, you must write about some unique stuff anyway. You work here. You think Shakespeare got to see the horrors we witness for a paycheck?”

That gets a little wet laugh out of Martin, making Tim smile. He rubs the other’s knee.

“I’ll see about getting you a new recorder. I have a reason to leave, so nothing stopping me from checking out a shop,”

“You don’t have to,” His voice has gone quiet. “But I’d. um. Really appreciate it..”

“Course, dude,” A hand ruffles Martin’s thick hair, giving him a pat as he stands.

“Do you want anything from the vending machine?”

Martin looks up at him, wide-eyed. Smiles one of those smiles that makes his eyes into little curves. “A hershey's, please.”

“You got it,” Tim does a little salute and turns to leave.

“Um-” Martin raises a hand, and twists his body to stand.

“What’s up?”

A moment of silence.

“Nevermind,” Martin shakes his head and sits back down. “You can um. Leave the hershey's outside the door. When you get it,”

“You got it.”

Tim has to rub his eyes as he takes a last glance into the room, because for a moment, something seems to be fogging up his vision.

No big deal.


End file.
